Forgive me, o brothers and only friends, your humble narrator has strayed and gone over to The other side - the Outside World. And such a wicked cruel place it was too.

Eight months this house selling business has been going on. Decided this week I could not Go On. Put my head in the oven and waited - before realising we were electric. (I know, thats an old one), asked Fatso if he had any arsenic - and would he like to come on this journey with me. I would take comfort from dying with Fatso. The fat Git woke up abruptly and offered me the only ware he could in the circumstances. Extra strong Annadin.

Mind you, they say you look bloody terrible after swallowing arsenic and other poisons. They burn your insides and you go all blue and that. Not serene looking like Snow White and that. And I'm already two stone overweight and lardy, I don't want to look any worse.

My mate's got one of those big paddling pools, quite deep. Considered putting my head under but they say drowing is an awful way to go, your lungs burst and it hurts and that.

I considered running to the kids for support. And in my head, I knew what they'd say to their poor mother - Good Riddance, daughter would say. Sod off, son would say, now we can get a decent stepmother who won't stink of fags and hold us back. And don't expect us to come to the funeral either. Except to dance on your grave! By the way, we want money for Westfield.

The little buggers! It seemed the whole world was against me. I ran to the Cat for comfort and that furry featured little cow just bit me!

Today, drawin on my Polish fag, trying to find a huge building in my A-Z to jump off, Husband texted. We have now exchanged contracts, it said. The sun came out.

Off to a wedding in Holland tomorrow. And even tho' I'm down to my last £100 - I'm having a Beano in Duty Free!

Slum Landlords

Nothing to say these last few days really. Just been buried in hopelessness.

Went to Fatso's for sympathy about the house. Told him all about my crushed dreams and disappointments. He looked at me intently. Some would say blankly.
"You want carrier bag?" he said in the end.

This was the only kind of comfort he knew how to give.

I walked out the shop, shoulders hunched.

Go the young Poles' shop next door thats quite good for vegetables and that.

"You have room?", he says to me
"Do what?", I say
"You know room I can rent?"
What? I'm Rackman now am I?

If I wasn't a better person I would say: yeah, I've got a house round the corner going for £269,999 but we're open to offers!!
Instead I merely said: "Where are you living now?"
"Its ok," he replied, "I'm married."

Well, for fracks sake.

That afternoon a woman from Northern Ireland made an offer on the house.

What a week...!

What a week this has been, my readers and only friends:

On Wednesday, Son didn't get through the football trials and today, our Buyers have pulled out. Made redundant - what sort of excuse is that? Their Lenders have immediately withdrawn their offer.

We have lost at least 1500 quid and we've got to go back to viewers tramping all over the fracking house. And of course, our dream home, a quarter of a mile away is sailing out to sea as I write.

Oddly enough, according to our gutted Estate Agents, the original builder of this house has also had a property fall through today. He is going to tell him about this one. But whyever would the bloke want to come back? He built it in 1985, thats it for him, isn't it.

AND I've got to work all weekend at that fracking rugby stadium! It doesn't bear thinking about. Oh Lordy!

Have any of our readers got a worse weekend than this one? A Superkings fag will go out to the most grimest and miserable of prospects.

Heard on Jeremy Vine that some MPs may consider suicide after this scandal about living expenses and second homes and that. So things aren't all bad...........

Point of No Return ?

Well, my Mum wrote out a cheque as if she was making out a shopping list. So it seems we can conquer our dream house after all. All we can do now is just sit here until we hear something.

Have been talking to my Worry Dolls a lot. They seem to be badly needed this week. I got them in Mexico and they're tiny little peg dolls in a little box. You have to tell them your worries at night and then put them under your pillow. And they will solve your problems for you. And I tell you what, they really come up with the goods. Every problem i've had since 1994, they've worked on it.

I told 'em i was worried about asking Mum that money thing. They fixed it. Told 'em i was worried about helping with the wine after the Easter service yesterday. Went like a dream didn't it. I'm now worried about Daughter's party on Saturday, i really hope they don't let me down. There's no specific reason for worrying about this, I just happen to dread every party we've arranged for the past 13 years.

Mind you, they get a bit stroppy these dolls. They've started demandin things like visas and the right to vote. And now they want me to take them to Westfield - and pay! So you've got to watch the little sods.

Disillusionment

Well, Fatso may be disillusioned with show business but not as disillusioned as I am about bloody houses.

Go to see one, don't we, last Saturday. Fall in love with it. And i mean head over heels, loss of appetite, everything. Husband too. Puts in an offer. They say No, higher offer been made. They contact us again. Could you "up it" slightly? Husband goes in there today to see one of their wiz-kid mortgage brokers. Enormously high mortgage. I tell him to say Frack off. He tells me to borrow money off my mother. My newly widowed, will-benefiting mother. I still say Frack off. There's cheaper houses.

How did i get into this? Less than a week ago, I was blissfully unaware of enticing houses, my only worry being how to taunt Fatso. Now, I feel the world is on my shoulders. How the Frack do i ask my Mum for money? I mean she's lent me money for fags before and that.... but this is so much more sinister.

When our offer was initially turned down, we went to see another house to lift our spirits. Well, it did in a perverse sort of way. What a load of old shit! £412,000 for some mid-terraced 50's house - all open plan and a recording studio upstairs! - those poor neighbours! You can build up in the loft, the estate agent says cheerfully. Oh I mean, thats alright then isn't it. I was worried there!

I mean does the Credit Crunch not apply to Twickenham then? They're still free to take the piss house-wise?

Estate agents emailed another house to us. Looked lovely. A chalet style thing with lots of character and room inside. Husband said he wouldn't dream of living in that "shit area".
He can be such a snob sometimes.